“Raynetta,” Hank called out. Dusty noticed the way Miss Raynetta paused before turning around. Her father always called her “Miss Raynetta,” and in being so familiar he’d revealed something that had unsettled the darling woman. Slowly she turned around and looked first to Dusty and then to Hank.
“Yes?” she asked. Her almost perpetual smile was gone; her eyes were wide and frightened.
“I…I…uh,” Hank stammered. “Could you and I have us a little chat?”
Immediately, Miss Raynetta’s hands began to wring, and she looked to Dusty desperately. “Dusty?” she asked. “Dusty, what have you been talkin’ to your daddy about?” Dusty could see the panic and tears rising in the woman’s eyes.
“Raynetta,” her father began. Lifting her skirts, Miss Raynetta turned and lit out toward the barn. “Raynetta!” Hank called. He didn’t waste a moment in pursuing her. Dusty knew Miss Raynetta would never be able to outrun her father. He was still one of the fastest runners in the county. No matter how spry Miss Raynetta was, and she fairly darted away like a spooked fairy, her father would track her down.
Tears fairly gushed from Raynetta’s eyes as she ran—so many tears that her vision was blurred, and she had trouble seeing where she was going. How could she? How could Dusty tell Hank her secret? He knew now! He knew! She’d seen it in his eyes as he turned and looked from his daughter to her. She stumbled and fell, picked herself up quickly, and ran on toward the barn.
“Raynetta!” she heard him call after her.
How she wanted to stop and face him—to tell him what she had never had the courage to tell him so many years ago—had never been brave enough to tell him since his sweet wife had passed. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t face him. She could never face him again!
“Stop it!” he growled, and Raynetta felt a strong arm catch her around the waist—hold her still against a strong body. There would be no escaping him. As good to face the executioner as run from him, she squirmed about in his one arm, which soon became two until he released her.
Facing him, she cried, “How could she tell you? How could she?”
“She shouldn’t have had to,” Hank mumbled. “I should’ve—”
“I trusted her! I watched her go through a heartbreak…the kind that feels like it will kill you! I bled inside for her! I trusted her!” Burying her face in her hands, she sank to her knees in the straw covering the barn floor.
“Did ya ever tell her not to tell me?” Hank asked bluntly.
Raynetta looked up to him in pain and disbelief. “No! You shouldn’t have to tell people not to tell some things!”
“Don’t be mad at my girl, Raynetta, please,” he said, in a soothing voice she’d come to know all too well. “She was only tryin’ to help me.”
“I loved Elly, Hank. I swear to you! No one was happier for her than me. I—I never resented her! I never…” she sobbed, desperate to defend herself against any betrayal he might suspect her of.
“I know,” he said, reaching down to put a hand on her shoulder.
She moved away from him. Standing and turning from him, she hugged herself and whispered, “Just leave me be, Hank. Please.”
For the first time in her entire life, Raynetta McCarthy felt ridiculous wearing a red dress. She wished it were brown or straw-colored so she could sink away into the corners of the barn and not be noticed.
“Raynetta,” Hank began.
“I thought she was the prettiest girl I had ever seen. And when she had your babies…I thought, ‘He’s lucky to have her. No one else could’ve had babies that pretty for him. I could never have had babies that pretty for him.’ ” She didn’t see Hank wince as he stood behind her. She felt cold—as if she were living in a nightmare—and she just kept talking. “I wished so much that I coulda had babies for you. I wished that those little girls coulda belonged to me. I tried not to think that way. I tried to love so many men who offered me marriage, but—”
“Raynetta,” Hank interrupted, “I never, never woulda hurt you on purpose. Forgive me.”
She turned to him suddenly. “Forgive you? For what? That’s like Ryder Maddox a-beggin’ forgiveness from Dusty when there weren’t nothin’ he coulda done different than to leave all those years ago. You did nothin’ wrong. Nothin’. And neither did I.” Turning from him, she added, “And let’s leave it at that now, all right?”
“I don’t want you bein’ angry with Dusty, Raynetta,” commanded Hank. “She’s lickin’ her own wounds finally, and I know she had my best interest at heart. She knows I…she’s seen me a-hankerin’ after you and…and not reachin’ out and takin’. She wanted to give me a shove forward, I suspect.”
Raynetta watched as Hank turned and closed the barn doors, shutting them in alone. Someone had left a lantern burning on one of the rafters, and Raynetta marveled at how wildly alive Hank’s eyes seemed in the lowered light—how possessive of what he was looking at—of her!
He turned to her and said, “I’m scared, Raynetta…more scared than I’ve been in a long, long time. And in a manner I ain’t never been scared before.” He took several steps toward her, causing her to stumble backward—so intent was he in his sudden appraisal of her. “I been watchin’ these youngsters…the way they tiptoe ’round all proper and slow-like in courtin’ each other. I figure…it ain’t for me. Not anymore. I don’t have the time for it.”
“Hank,” Raynetta began. Even as her heart swelled with hope and elation, she suddenly had a vision of Ryder picking Dusty up in his arms the day before—disappearing into the very same barn. Still, she feared to dream, and she tried to deter him. “It’s in the past. I don’t want your guilt toward me makin’ ya think ya have to…” But her words were lost as he reached out and brushed a tear from her cheek with the back of his hand.
He was still so handsome—even more so in many ways than he’d been all those years ago. His hair, once so perfectly black, was salt-and-pepper now, his temples almost completely white. Yet his eyes, still as black as the night, were the same and made more appealing somehow by the wrinkles at the corners—testaments of years of happy living. His chin was firm and square and just as commanding as it always had been. As he stepped closer to her, taking her face in his hands, Raynetta McCarthy’s heart began to beat so brutally within her chest she gasped several times—her breathing labored in trying to withhold sobbing.
“I’m tellin’ ya this…and I mean it. It’s the truth,” Hank mumbled as he gazed down into her eyes.
“What?” she managed to whisper.
“Raynetta McCarthy…you’re the most beautiful woman I ever kissed,” Hank told her.
Raynetta smiled at him as a tear trickled down her lovely cheek. “You never kissed me, Hank Hunter.”
“And I’m a fool for it,” he chuckled, bending toward her.
Yet heartache still ebbed in her bosom—next to hope. She put her hands softly on his chest to stall him. “I’m not Elly,” she told him through more tears.
“I know that, Raynetta,” Hank whispered and moved again to kiss her. But she turned her face from him.
“I…I won’t be the same. I won’t be her,” she whispered.
“I know, Raynetta,” Hank repeated. Then, taking her face in his hands again, he forced her to face him. “I want to have you, Raynetta. I’m not lookin’ for a ghost.” His eyes were moist with tears, but she knew they were tears for her sake—not tears over what he’d already loved and lost. “The past ain’t standin’ here next to us. All I’m seein’…all I’m wantin’ is you.”
He bent to kiss her again, but she took his face in her own hands. “I’m not very good at this, I don’t think.”
“Raynetta,” Hank chuckled, trying to silence her.
“I mean…it ain’t like I never kissed anybody before.” Not liking the way that had sounded, she rattled on. “Not that I’ve kissed a lot or anything! I mean…I haven’t. I mean, I have enough to know how and all…just not a lot. So, I might not—”
“H
ush up, Raynetta,” Hank chuckled in a low, alluring voice.
“All right,” she agreed, dropping her hands from his face. “All right.” Hank kissed her lightly on one cheek, and she breathed, “Oh, my goodness.”
As Hank Hunter kissed her tenderly, letting his lips linger on her lips for a moment, Raynetta thought she might indeed swoon away. She’d given up on her dream of belonging to him—long, long ago. Yet she dared to hope for it once more as his powerful arms wrapped her warmly in his possessive embrace—further proving his impatience with proper courting as his mouth seized hers in a blazing exercise in passion. Her timidity was vanquished almost immediately, and she let her own arms go around him.
Hank Hunter is kissing me, she thought. And his kiss was more perfect, more deserving of praise in its blissful perfection, than even she had ever dreamed. She kissed him in return, unbridled and unashamed of having loved him for so long. His hands caressed her face, her neck, his arms holding her possessively then again. And for all her joy, for all her rapture in living a dream in his arms, she could not stop the tears—tears of joy mingled with disbelief and fear of ending the dream. He eased the intensity of their affectionate exchange and, without releasing her from his embrace, broke their kiss, studying her face as he brushed away her tears.
“I’m not gonna bolt and run, if that’s what you’re thinkin’, Raynetta,” he assured her.
She looked away shyly. It was so unearthly to be in such a situation with him. She began to doubt she was awake.
“Dusty, for all her tryin’ to harden herself up, could see it in my eyes. Can’t you?” Still she didn’t look at him. She turned her face toward his. “Can’t ya see yourself in my eyes? I do love you,” he whispered without any pause or stammering. And she looked to him. He grinned at her and brushed a lock of hair from her forehead. “You think you can love a worn-out ol’ cowhand like me, Raynetta McCarthy?”
She breathed a giggle—a sigh of believing what he was telling her. “I’ve loved you my whole entire life.”
“Good,” Hank mumbled. “Then ya think someday soon you’d marry me and we could get busy on that little brother Dusty’s always wanted?”
Raynetta burst into tears—buried her face in her hands for a moment before looking up into his handsome, sincere, and loving face and crying, “Yes! Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!” She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him, never wanting to let him go.
Dusty stood outside the barn, perched on an old rain barrel. She brushed the tears from her cheeks as she peered in through the barn window. Miss Raynetta would make her daddy happy! There was no doubting it. Hank Hunter would love Miss Raynetta just as she’d always dreamed—perhaps even more.
“Shame on you, Miss Britches! Spyin’ on Miss Raynetta and her beau!”
Ryder’s voice from behind her startled Dusty, and she lost her footing on the barrel. Her arms flailed wildly, trying to find something to hold on to, but in the end she lost the balance battle and tumbled off the barrel—knocking Ryder to the ground. He chuckled, and she quickly scrambled up from her place on top of him, smoothing her hair and skirt and trying to find some semblance of dignity. He simply lay on the ground smiling up at her for a moment before extending his hand in a gesture indicating she should help him to his feet.
“Oh, like you need help gettin’ up,” she said. Still, she reached down and took his hand anyway, yanking hard. He yanked harder, however, and before she could regain her balance, Dusty was lying on the ground next to him. “You’re a pill!” Dusty exclaimed, sitting up and kneeling beside him.
“And you’ve turned into quite the little matchmaker, haven’t ya now?” Ryder grinned and put his hands behind his head. It appeared as if he meant to lie in the grass for some time.
“I’m not gonna talk to you if you’re gonna be a stinker,” she told him.
He seemed to ignore her and simply said, “You’re gonna have a harder row to hoe with Feller and Becca though.” He raised himself and leaned on one elbow. “I’d be willin’ to help ya with that one.”
“Don’t pretend ya didn’t do nothin’ to help that one in there,” she giggled, motioning to the barn.
He chuckled. “Now…what do ya want to talk about?” he asked.
“What?” she breathed, completely puzzled and yet amused at his lighthearted manner.
“Me and you. Let’s talk. What do ya want to talk about?”
Dusty paused. She didn’t want to ruin his good mood, but the question had been banging around in her head for days. “Well, if you wanna talk…” He nodded encouragingly. “Let’s talk about exactly why that paper ya got in the post the other day seemed to upset ya so much.”
Immediately, his manner changed; so did his expression. His playful grin turned to a severe frown. Yet he didn’t leave or reprimand her. He simply said, “Someone died. And…and that’s sad most of the time, ain’t it?”
He’d answered her question. She had no desire to upset him, so she simply nodded—even though her curiosity and the jealousy in her heart, burning over what she assumed were the reasons the paper had upset him, still ate at her soul.
“So,” he said then, “why did you ever hook up with a frog like Cash Richardson in the first place?”
Though his question upset and rather vexed her, it was fair enough—considering hers. There was nothing to do but answer him.
“Do ya really want to know? Do ya want to know what really happened?” Dusty asked him. “I know you’ve heard it all already. So why hear it again?”
“I want to hear it from you.”
“Fine. I’ll tell ya.” Dusty inhaled deeply and crossed her legs beneath her skirt. Unconsciously she began picking blades of grass from the ground one at a time. “I’ve known Cash for a long time. To be honest…I never gave him a second thought until I was about sixteen.” She realized her story would sound blunt and lacking emotion. Still, it was the truth—and the only way she knew how to tell it. “He started courting me then. He was nice…thoughtful…handsome.” Ryder sniffed and coughed in obvious disagreement. Dusty couldn’t help but smile. “He is fairly handsome, Ryder.”
“For a frog, I guess he is.”
Dusty smiled and shook her head. “He treated me very, very well…like I was special…like I meant everything to him. Nobody had treated me like that since…” She glanced at him, and he smiled guiltily. “For a long time,” she finished. “And he wasn’t a cowboy, so I knew…” She stopped herself but not soon enough.
“You knew he wouldn’t leave ya,” he finished for her.
“Yes,” she admitted, looking down at the grass she was picking. “Every other man around seemed so…so…”
“They were all cowboys. Like someone else ya knew once,” he finished again.
“Yes,” she admitted. “Cash seemed…I really thought I could be sort of happy with him.”
“That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard!” Ryder growled suddenly. “You thought you could be sort of happy with him?”
“You asked me about it. I’m telling you the truth,” Dusty reminded. It had been hard for her to start the tale—humiliating. And she was suddenly beginning to feel silly for confiding in him. “He was the only choice I had, Ryder.”
“Please!” Ryder grumbled, sitting up completely and scowling at her. “You were seventeen when he asked you, weren’t ya? Dusty! It ain’t like you were an old, shriveled-up prune.”
“I’m sorry I even told you,” she spat, jumping to her feet and stomping away.
“Come on now. I’m sorry.” Ryder was at her heels instantly, and she stopped as he took hold of her arm. “He just gets my dander up, that’s all.” He turned her to face him. “Don’t stomp off mad again. Finish it. I really want to know what happened from you.”
Dusty looked up into his magnificently handsome face. The all too familiar pang of heartbreak stabbed at her heart. She felt the need to escape him now, as she always did when she knew she was weakening toward him—when she dared to think her dr
eam might become reality. Even after their tender, intimate moments yesterday in the barn, she battled fear. She’d won so many battles with the emotion, but the war raged on.
“Yes, seventeen.” She paused, reflecting on how mature she’d thought she’d been then. “We were engaged to be married, and about a month before the wedding, I went over to the Richardsons’ to see Cash…to surprise him one evening. I’d just made him a cake for his danged birthday. When I think of all the effort I wasted on him…” she mumbled out of context. “Well, as I was walking toward the house, I heard somethin’ comin’ from the Richardsons’ barn. I went over and looked in, and there was Cash and one of the saloon girls from town.” Ryder let out a breath of exasperation, and then she continued. “They weren’t doin’ any more than kissin’—at least then—but…”
“And what did ya do?” Ryder interrupted.
“What do you think I did? I smashed the cake in his face and went home,” she answered.
“I thought he was such a gentleman. So high and mighty…so much better than us lowly cowboys,” Ryder grumbled.
“He was a gentleman! To me,” she continued. “That was the ridiculous part of his story. He had too much respect for me, you see. But he had all this…this penned-up desire for me. And he couldn’t endure it any longer. Have ya ever heard such a cockamamie excuse?” she asked him.
Ryder raised his eyebrows for a moment and mumbled, “A real gentleman would just ride off one night…don’t ya think?”
Dusty didn’t really think on what he said at first. She simply went on dramatically venting her old frustration. “He told me that to expect any man to resist…well, molesting me…was just too much to ask! How could he be expected not to falter and place his affections on someone else until he could have me…completely?”
“Oh, hand me a bucket ’fore I throw up!” Ryder exclaimed disgustedly. He sat down in the grass again. His anger and his disgust with Cash’s actions were obvious. “Can’t expect a man to keep control of hisself, huh? That’s a real good excuse for bein’ that kind of a jackass!” He shook his head in irritation.
Dusty Britches Page 28
